


Up For a Challenge

by WitchWithWifi



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Garbagefire man right here, I wrote this half asleep at one am, Theyre not getting it on, bed sharing if you squint, but it's still cute okay, sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 08:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14421636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchWithWifi/pseuds/WitchWithWifi
Summary: Everyone's favorite drinking buddies, the wanted terrorist and smaller-than-average historian, bond over a bottle of vodka.





	Up For a Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I just wrote. It was one am, there was no editing, and here we are. Enjoy!

She didn’t have to say anything. She knew when he let her in, he would have been fine- happy, even, with sitting together in silence, drinking, and simply _existing_ in each other’s space.

However, Lucy didn’t want that. She didn’t want to be allowed to think too much about anything. If she was allowed to think, her thoughts would end up circling back to Wyatt- they always did. It was inevitable, but she couldn't bear to do that right then.

Instead, she took a swig of the bottle and handed it off to Flynn, who simply watched her as she flopped down on the end of his bed, briefly noting the neat hospital corners he’d made with the same scratchy grey blanket they were all given. She propped her chin up with her hands, elbows on her knees. 

Flynn looked at her for another long moment before tilting the bottle up to take a hearty swig, and she could see his eyes widen as he choked back a cough. “This is some strong stuff, eh?” He commented, handing back the bottle.

She smirked and took a long sip, never breaking eye contact with him as she did. He scoffed, and sat down next to her. “Showoff.” He didn’t meet her gaze, and waved off the hand offering him the bottle again.

They were quiet for a long minute, but the silence wasn’t unbearable this time. It was like how it had been a couple nights ago. Nice, strangely companionable. 

God, was her entire world turning upside down, or were she and Flynn becoming… friends? The idea had seemed to foreign to her just six months ago, and yet now, here she was, sharing her alcohol with that very man. He'd saved her life multiple times over the past few trips, and had been nothing but courteous to her the whole time.

Finally, she spoke. “You’d think for a bunker this advanced, there would be more rooms, right?”

If Flynn was surprised by her odd choice of conversation topic, he didn’t show it. “To be fair, I don’t think the architecture was designed with… these sort of dynamics, shall we say, in mind.” He was still looking straight ahead, mirroring Lucy’s position, but the smile was evident on his face. “In this bunker alone, we have a man whose wife just came back from the dead, the undead wife, a girl who has visions, a time-traveling genius, a dashingly handsome wanted terrorist, and a historian caught in the middle of it all.” He turned the kind smile on to her. “I don’t think there are any blueprints for that.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, giving him the same smile she’d given him in 1936, when she’d claimed he was delusional (he wasn’t). “They couldn’t have at least made one more bedroom?” Her face fell. “Or soundproof walls?”

Flynn’s smile also transformed into a grimace. “Wyatt and his wife do seem to be… ah,  _going at it_ quite a bit.” Finally, he spared her a sidelong look. “That must be hard for you.”

He wasn’t teasing, or prodding, or trying to provoke her. Just trying to get to know her, on her own terms, as he'd promised. _There’s no point in lying._ Lucy set down the bottle with a quiet _plunk_ on the concrete floor. “I thought Wyatt and I… we really had something. A chance at something, at least. But what else could I do?” She looked at Garcia helplessly, and attempted to hold back the tears she’d suppressed since they first found out Jessica was alive. “She’s his wife. He thought she was dead, and now she’s back, and she’s here, and I couldn’t stand in the way of their happiness.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. The tears were there, hot and burning, just behind her eyelids, and she pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, wondering if she could duct tape the part of her chest that felt like it was being split in two. “I couldn’t.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Lucy,” Garcia’s voice was soft, and gentle. He’d been nothing but gentle with her lately, like she was made of porcelain, and one wrong touch could shatter her into pieces. Normally, she’d fight against that kind of treatment, remind him that she was stronger than she seemed. But in that moment, she was grateful. She _was_ on the edge of falling apart, teetering precariously on the ledge. For her team, she had to be strong, level-headed, and brave. Here, behind that metal door, in _Garcia Flynn’s_ room, she could lower her walls. Just a bit. 

He touched her shoulder, hesitation even in that small touch, and she let herself break. The sobs, though quiet, felt like they were being ripped out of her chest. She didn’t know if she was the one to move, or Garcia, but she found herself burrowing into his chest, pulling herself against him like it was the next step to a dance she knew well. Seamless, instinctive. 

Something in the back of her mind told her not to snot all over his (extremely soft) henley, so she snaked a hand between them to wipe her nose, and allowed her fingertips to lightly rest on his chest. 

He paused, and then experimentally stroked her back, clearly out of his depth, questioning where the line was, and how not to cross it. She ignored his hesitation, allowing weeks of frustration, confusion, and anger pour out of her. It was like a dam had broken inside of her, and this was the release.

And indeterminable amount of time later, her sobs slowed to hiccups, and she came back to herself. Garcia had hardly moved a muscle, save for his reassuring back rub (though later she could have sworn he also dropped a kiss to the top of her head. She pulled away and flushed, suddenly embarrassed. She came in to talk, not to snot on his shoulder like Sally in When Harry Met Sally- which gave her an unexpected rush of images and feelings she was _not_ ready to explore.

“Thanks,” She croaked out, then cleared her throat. “I didn’t come here to cry all over you though. I’m sorry. This wasn't... I'm sorry.”

He furrowed his eyebrows at her. “Sorry for what, exactly? The tears on my sweater?”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with me like… like that. I’m not a crier.”

“Lucy, we've all been through a tremendous amount of stress in the past few months. You, especially. I’d be concerned if you didn’t have a good cry every once in a while.”

She mustered a form of a smile for him. “I don’t see you weeping into my flannel.”

“Ah,” He waved a hand. “I did my crying in solitary. But I’ll get back to you in a few weeks with some tears, if you desire.” His smile was playful, but there was a sad truth behind his words. “Now, if you didn’t come here to ruin my favorite sweater, what did you come for? A good, old fashioned drinking game?” He nodded to the forgotten bottle of vodka beside her.

Lucy tilted her head, neither indicating yes or no. “I wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

She shrugged, and leaned down to pick up the bottle again. The glass was cool and smooth in her hot hands. “Anything. You said you wanted to get to know me, and I want to know you, too. So.” She turned on the bed, and pulled her knee up to rest her chin on it. “Ask me something you don’t know about me. And then I’ll ask you. We can make a game out of it if you so desire. Loser performs whatever dare the winner picks.”

Garcia’s eyes glinted in the bunker light. “I’ve always loved a challenge.”

***

“You wanted to be a garbage man?”

“I wanted to ride on the back of the truck! It looked like fun.”

***

“No, Lucy, your favorite flavor of ice cream is not allowed to be vanilla.”

“It’s classic!”

“It’s boring.”

***

“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me.”

“He’s just a poor boy FROM A POOR FAMILY!”

“And that is where we cut you off from the vodka, Ms. Preston.”

“Nooooo. Gimme.”

***

Lucy awoke to a pounding headache. The only coherent thought she could manage was “ow.” Her mouth was dry, and tasted like absolute crap. After a minute, though, she came to realize she was not in her and Jiya’s room. Nor was she on the couch in the living room.

Her head was resting on a pillow, and she was lying on top of the gray covers. Her feet were propped up on… jean-clad legs?

She tilted her head (with great difficulty) to see Garcia, slouched in a sitting position. His head was leaning slightly to the side, and his eyes were closed. He was fast asleep, with her legs in his lap, and his hands resting protectively over her ankles. She shocked herself by how… not freaked out she was by this. Though she did feel bad about stealing his bed. She sat up gingerly, going slow to avoid throwing up from the spinning room. 

“Garcia,” she rasped and _yikes,_ even her voice was affected by the monster hangover from hell. “ _Garcia_.”

He started, and whipped his head to face her, and immediately winced. “Ow,” He grunted, reaching back to rub his neck. Lucy’s guilt doubled.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to steal your bed,” she apologized, shifting as she made to stand up. “I guess we got too into the game.” She nodded at the now-empty bottle, which for some reason was on its side in the middle of the floor.

Garcia just grunted again. Clearly, he was not a morning person. Before she could ask him if he needed anything, he careened sideways like a stone statue being knocked over to land on his pillow. Unfortunately, Lucy hadn’t moved fast enough, and found herself being knocked back onto the pillow as well, which, again, was not great for her hangover.

Their noses were less than two inches apart. She couldn’t even look into his eyes without going cross eyed herself.

“Your morning breath sucks.”

“Well, you’re not smelling like a field of roses either, Lucy.”

“I’m-“

“Shh. Mornings are not for talking.” His eyes were closed, and he was practically mumbling his words at this point.

“Oh? What are they for, then?”

“Sleep.” And just like that, he was out like a light.

***

She hadn’t intended to fall back to sleep, but somehow she did, and woke up again to find a hand on her hip, and a warm chest pressed against her back. This time, she wasn’t confused, and still refused to be freaked out. For the first time in weeks, she’d slept peacefully. Blame the vodka, or blame him, but she’d done something right last night, and she wasn’t about to be hindered by a tiny thing like regret. So, instead, she sank back against the man, drinking in the time they had before her mother tried to ruin history again. And maybe she’d get around to writing that journal- if only to ensure her past self a drinking buddy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Weirdly enough, I'm a huge Lyatt shipper, but I just adore this dynamic as well. It's different and exciting. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
